The Poems of Henry Van Dyke eBook

PRO PATRIA

PATRIA

I would not even ask my heart to say
If I could love another land
as well
As thee, my country, had I
felt the spell
Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey
The charm of France, or England’s
mighty sway.
I would not be so much an
infidel
As once to dream, or fashion
words to tell,
What land could hold my heart from thee
away.

For like a law of nature in my blood,
America, I feel thy sovereignty,
And woven through
my soul thy vital sign.
My life is but a wave and thou the flood;
I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree;
Nor should I be
at all, were I not thine.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts
of royal splendour;
They are simple enough to be great in
their friendly dignity,—­
Homes that were built by the brave beginners
of a nation.

I love the old white farmhouses nestled
in New England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering
over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned
roses,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes
in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory
ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household
relics,—­
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit
of self-reliance.

I love the weather-beaten, shingled
houses that front the ocean;
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something
indomitable
about them:
Their backs are bowed, and their sides are covered
with lichens;
Soft in their colour as gray pearls, they are full
of a patient courage.
Facing the briny wind on a lonely shore they stand
undaunted,
While the thin blue pennant of smoke from the square-built
chimney
Tells of a haven for man, with room for a hearth
and a cradle.

I love the stately southern mansions
with their tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields
where the cotton is
growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their
shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards